Cartooning: Philosophy and Practice (Yale University Press, 2010; 78 pages; $13)

If you’re familiar with Ivan Brunetti’s cartoons, you might at first blush not want to take a course from him. His frequently autobiographical comics are loaded with self-loathing (“Turn Your Eyes Inside and Dig the Vaccumm”) and shocking admissions of his distaste for most other human beings (“Hrrlfk! 1,784 Things That Make Me Vomit”). In his (presumably) non-autobiographical work, he often likes to juxtapose quaint old-fashioned newspaper comics styles with images of sexual depravity (“America’s Sweethearts Smelly Ass & Fisty in ‘Piles o’ Fun’”).

Brunetti’s brilliant, of course. He practices a bracing sort of honesty that tests the boundaries of taste as a natural exercise in “what’s next?”:You find downtrodden, depressive Peanuts types amusing? Well, how about the hopeless and suicidal, then? You find memoir-style indie comics eye-opening? Well, how about an entire page of tiny-print soliloquoy? You find comics about single-minded obsessives or casually violent dopes or the frantically lovelorn hilarious? Well, look out!!

The examples listed above all come from Misery Loves Comedy, a hardbound collection of the first three issues of Brunetti’s Schizo comic book augmented with “Horrifying Early Work,” “Contributions to Various Periodicals” (mainly other indie artists’ publications; he has since done some New Yorker covers and other high-profile work) and some beautifully printed color pieces (including “The Thurber Carnivore,” which is not the only extensive appreciation of James Thurber in the collection).

Brunetti comes off not as anti-intellectual but anti-artifice, which is a bracing way for an artist to behave. It raised a few eyebrows when he served as editor for Yale University Press’ Anthology of Graphic Fiction, Cartoons and True Stories, but he proved to be an inspired choice, as you might suspect from the book’s very title. The wide-ranging compendium earned a follow-up volume, and in lieu of a third volume (Brunetti notes in his appendix to Cartooning: Philosophy and Practice that he “will leave that endeavor to the ages, or at least to a much younger, less broken human being”), Yale Press is now publishing his self-described “classroom in a book,” which the author goes on to state gives readers “all the benefits of taking the cartooning course I teach, minus the distractions of the instructor’s monotonous, droning voice, chronic absent-mindedness, soporific slideshows and soul-crushing critiques.”

Imagine how many English and History professors would love a chance to publish their course curricula and reading lists in book form! Those guys in the older disciplines can dream on, but comics is still such a young field in academia that anything published about how to teach and appreciate it has immediate merit. Brunetti is appropriately humble, and typically self-deprecating, about being given the opportunity to publish his classroom preparations. At the same time, those very apprehensions have clearly led to an extra level of effort being put into the lectures and assignments. Brunetti notes that he has had “a wide variety of students, ranging from the deeply perceptive and analytical [who taught me a few things] to one who took the class simply to ‘keep out of trouble on Wednesday nights,’” and seems to expect an equally, if not more, diverse lot for this book version of the course.

I read Cartooning: Philosophy and Practice just for fun—as a fan of the artist and not as a potential pupil—and got a lot out of it.

The book presents you with a much less disturbing Brunetti—two steps removed from his hardcore indie comics, one step removed from the tastes he revealed as an anthology editor—but a no less forthright or outspoken one. His opinions shape the text. His own drawings illustrate it—original art through which he delves into his sometimes quirky assignments by attempting them himself. Brunetti breaks down an entire novel, Catcher in the Rye, into a single cartoon panel, showing how he did by stages of text and image removal. He gives his own take on exercises associated with cartoonists Chris Ware (“the eyebrow to eyebrow transition”) and James Kochalka (the daily diary in four-panel strip format). His page illustrating “some common pitfalls” of cartooning (“inconsistent character design,” “awkward compositions, more easily seen if upside down,” etc.) is as entertaining as it is illuminating, and made further endearing by this captioned comment: “Note, however, that all of these can be subverted and used to the artist’s (and narrative’s) advantage.”
Truly a teacher who’s scared of imparting any hard-and-fast rules, Ivan Brunetti becomes a radical in academic attire. Cartooning isn’t an upper-crust university-press caricature of those old mainstream “how to draw” manuals—it’s a subversive and realistic introduction to the still-maligned, often misunderstood yet increasingly scrutinized world of cartooning today. You couldn’t hope for a more self-aware, down-to-earth yet mindfuckingly stimulating handbook.

By Artie Capshaw

“I got good,” says the man whose name was Sin.

“Sin-Gin” Smith got his melodious moniker from singeing his fingers with crack pipes. Or maybe it was that period of his life when he would reliably drink a fifth of gin—or rum, or whatever was handy—a day.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t exactly remember. In some respects, he’d like to forget. Yet he also doesn’t want to let himself forget.

In case you’re worried that you’ve strayed into the “affirmations and beatitudes” column, rest assured that Sin-Gin is an ideal subject for the local band beat. Like so of those we write about (not to mention the readers) music saved his life.

As a kid, Smith had played saxophone in the high school marching band, and even joined an R&B party combo for a time. “But I wasn’t any good,” he recollects. “Everybody told me so. Playing music was just an excuse to party afterwards. When the band got better and I didn’t, they moved on.”

He worked as a mechanic, then didn’t work at all, then nearly died on a cold street corner after blacking out from a near-overdose. He woke up in a small stone archway jutting out from the back of First Church on Main. Had no idea how he’d gotten there. Slept there most of the next day.

When he woke up, he heard the kind of music which made him think he’d died. When he realized he was still mortal and conscious, he found the inner strength not to skedaddle but to investigate where the heavenly chords were coming from.

A church organ, naturally. Being played by the church’s eminent Pastor Will rather than the church’s musical director. But the organ was forgotten when Sin Gin peeked into the sanctuary and saw—on a stand beneath the pulpit, with light streaming upon it—a battered old saxophone.

He stepped loudly down the aisle, grabbed the sax, and spoke to the startled minister in the international language of song. A conversation ensued, and Sin-Gin’s spiritual awakening began on those notes.

The heaven-sent sax turned out to have been a gift for an upcoming tag sale at the church. Now it’s a fixture of a special service on the third Wednesday of every month: Jazz Vespers, led by guess who? “Sin-Gin”

Smith has polished the hallowed instrument lovingly, and has polished his playing too. One example of how well his salvation is going is that when we first heard about him, it wasn’t because he was some potential human-interest story about spiritual reawakening or overcoming drug abuse. We heard that the most sinuous sax in town was being blown at one of the severest (and soberest) jazz jams in town, amazingly at First Church on Main.

We went down with some jazz pals who know their shit, and they were itching to sit in. (Spiritual rebirth is not a prerequisite, but it is a happening scene and there can be a long sign-up sheet.) This is a tight, elegant and democratically run gathering where folks play and sing their guts out. No egos—there’s clearly a higher presence in the room that keeps everyone humble. There’s no solipsistic soloing, just sharing. Lots of smiling too.

Sin-Gin Smith has not only made up with old musician friends from his debauched decades, he’s made up with his instrument of choice—the only thing he inhales or drinks in these days, he jokes.

“What can I say?,” he says again. “I got good.”

The daunting duo The Brave Bulls charge (where else?) The Bullfinch, with opening sets from a bevy of solo singer-songwriters: Boy with Green Hair, Mr. Hex and Crimson Canary… The Crowd Roars (not really), Deadline at Dawn (featuring scribblers for the local rag), Dishonored Lady (wouldn’t that be their groupies, not the band?) and Dragon Seed at Hamilton’s New Band (i.e. “impress us and maybe we’ll pay you next time”) Nite… Another new local band, Puddlestone, got the opening slot for the sold-out Dust Be My Destiny and Earth Vs. the Flying Saucers at D’ollaire’s. Hard to believe, and believe us, we’re investigatin’…

My line in the play: “ahunh, ahumh, ahunh.” Plus I play banjo.

From the Yale Daily News, April 6:

The article “Sam’s Trip” should have appeared in English, not Latin. The News regrets the editorial and linguistic error.

Hours before they played, we were told to brave a Hamilton’s “Party Nite” and catch the opening set at all costs. The tip sounded sincere, not a prank to get us beat up by college boys, so we donned an inconspicuous brown jacket, paid the $5 and mosied in.

Turns out the band in question, Teaspoonful of Zest, was the latest performance project from our illustrious pal Dead Lewis. As is his wont, he found a cache of obscure songs in a certain genre, found some sidemen who could share the joke, rehearsed them exhaustively in the style in question (in this case, a sort of primitive suburban funk familiar to white AM radio listeners in the mid-1970s) and let loose the results upon an unsuspecting audience. Songs included “Gift Trap,” “Wink,” “Apples to Apples” and “Couch of Power”—did we just have you diving for your parents’ record collection there.

The most popular by far were the double-entendre tunes like “Priest of the Parish,” “The Resistance,” “Never Have I Ever” and “Buck Buck”…

From Rich to Rick: We were remiss in not noting last week the actual names of the drummer and bassist in Tin Rick. While we maintain that the real story there was the merging of vocalist/guitarist Martin Gibson and lead guitarist Eddie Rick, we ought to have made room for the hallowed names of Carvin and Cort, the Benedetto brothers, formerly of (duh) The Benedettos and the power trio Bee See Rich (with Richard Fernandes, now of the more conventionally acronymed PSR)….

Kangaroo Hop at the Bullfinch with Siam How Lonesome I Am and Wake Up America… Bantam Step, Dog-Gone Dangerous Girl, Tiddle-De-Winks, The Rolling Chairs—sounds like another College Nite at Hamilton’s. Drink up, fellas… Cool psychedelic basement show with Havanola, So Long Sammy, Where Journeys End, Picture I Want to See, Mr. Jazz Himself and Poppy Land—but we’re not allowed to tell you exactly where it is. Frosty (Q’s bald pal) will be standing on the corner of Day and Knightsbridge at 4 p.m. with details. Seriously… White reggae paradise at D’ollaire’s with scandal Walk, Jim-Jam-Jems, Kickin’ the Clouds, backing singers Lonesome Little Raindrops and backing band Idol Dreams….

One of the trolls in the play is really cute. Too cute to be a troll. Her initials are CT.

[As Christopher Arnott continues to chart his 45rpm single collection.]

1. Jeff and Jane, Special World b/w Mother Told Me. My wife took a class in video art from Jeff and Jane Hudson at the Boston MFA-affiliated Museum School around the time this single came out. I didn’t know that until years later. I first knew Jeff and Jane Hudson as The Rentals—not the much later Weezer-related act, but a local Boston band that got to open  for The Clash’s debut Boston appearance, at the Harvard Square Movie Theatre in mid-February of 1979. The Rentals got the gig because the ever-progressive Clash decreed that their opening acts must include a verifiable rock legend (at this juncture it was Bo Diddley) and a local band with a woman in it.

I saw that Clash show with my friend Wally Gagel, who eventually met the Hudsons and plays drums on this 1983 single. Wally, now a big record producer in L.A., was still in the thrall of John Lydon’s Public Image Limited back then (who who’d heard them wasn’t?). A derivative yet well-meaning mechanically paced doom and gloom pervades this disc. 1984 was nigh, after all, and distanced empty clanging was in vogue. I’d thought that The Rentals’ single “Gertrude Stein” was a brilliant punk translation of literary minimalism. This single, not so much. But it’s surprisingly vibrant for something otherwise so outdated.

2. 10cc, The Things We Do for Love b/w Hot to Trot. Ah, the allure of the non-LP B-side! This is the early days of the Graham Gouldman/Eric Stewart edition of 10cc, after Kevin Godley and Lol Crème (the more avant-garde half of the quartet) split off to go invent a guitar gadget and record the sprawling Consequences with Peter Cook. The first four 10cc albums were a mix of trad pop and postmodern itchings, cool and edgy yet strangely comforting. This single showed that something clearly had been lost, though it was a hit and the band endured in this form for several more albums.

3. Poundcake, Kick the Can b/w Algernon. From the silver age of power pop in Boston, as mounted by the Q Division studio/label. Guitarist Clayton Scoble Jr. had been part of Aimee Mann’s band and would later form Francine. Mark Rivers was a recovering Cavedog. Josh Lattanzi was the most charming bassist in Boston. This was an extraordinary trio. They seemed to have so much goofy fun playing together that you knew it couldn’t last long, and it didn’t. They did produce an album however, Aloha Via Satellite. Poundcake’s best songs, including “Kick the Can” here, were wondrous mixes of playful lyrics, profound musicianship and severe, algorithmic rhythms.

4. The Streams, The Drift b/w Failed Speech. Early single by the David Brooks-band which got darker and more roots-oriented as it matured. “The Drift,’ by contrast, has some delirious guitar swoops.

5. The Lean-To’s, Lucky and Soapscum b/w Jackie. This three-song EP by David Brooks’ pre-Streams band, issued on the British label Watercolour, came with some of the cattiest liner notes ever distributed, a tipped-in card that read:

Notice: The makers of this record have neglected to inform you of important information regarding this music. Evidently they felt their artwork and the name of their label was of more significance than giving proper credit to the individuals responsible for this music. To alleviate any confusion you may experience while examining this product, the following explanation is offered: The Lean-to’s were founded in 1987 by David Brooks and Joe Rees. The Soapscum/Lucky side of the record are two of the earliest recordings we made. The rhythm section on these tracks was Jim Balga and Spike Priggen. The Soupjackie side was from the second formation of the group, which included Jim Copola and Jon Morris on rhythm. All three compositions were written by David Brooks. Thanks to everyone who supported the group over the years. I hope you enjoy this music.

—Dave Brooks, November 1991.

Frieda Bettany sold out. Yes, she did her analytical disco revue at D’ollaire’s Saturday night. But all irony was lost. Her lyrics which mock dance-music stereotyping were either lost in the buffeting beats or had been whittled down from daggers into splinters. Her stage manner was just plain exhibitionistic, not campy or purposefully contrived or “contextual” as it was when she presented it as her Feminist Studies thesis projects mere weeks ago at the college on the hill. She just did a bunch a dance tunes. Whether they were good or not no longer matters in the same way.

As one who’d been actively pushing for this show to be seen by real people off-campus, we’re disco-distressed and apologetic. Hard to explain how different this was from what we saw up on the hill on a rainy afternoon last month.

In any case, a star is born. Bettany’s been booked, on the merits of the D’ollaire’s gig alone, by a big-city promoter to do a statewide tour of dance clubs—those “surprise” one-song showlets they insert in the middle of dance nights at the bigger clubs in order to create the sort of live human bonding that Bettany seemed to satirizing in her original class project. The idea is to try out a few different songs on those unsuspecting dancers and figure out what to release as her first single.

Oh, and her name’s changed. Frieda Bettany now goes by “FreeBet.”

If you ask us, all bets are off.

A Martian’s mistake, Objects for Common Telescopes and Picking on Charlie Chaplin at the Bullfinch… Other Famous Americans, Science in Rhyme and One Love Vain at Hamilton’s, one of the higher-end original music nights they’ve held lately… Grand on-the-way-down return to D’ollaire’s for Life’s Birthday Party and The Last Dandys. It’s an early show, so get there late…

A lot of shooting in the middle of the night? Turns out they were rehearsing a play next door. I went over to shut them up and now I’m in the play.

I showed the movie Rock & Roll High School to my daughters for the first time just last week, so the May issue of MOJO magazine couldn’t be more timely in our household. The cover shows Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee and Marky from the exact era when the R&RHS was made. In one of the three feature articles inside the mag, David Fricke hones in on 1979, the year when Rock & Roll  was released, the Phil Spector-produced album End of the Century was recorded, and the Ramones made their most valiant stab at mainstream success.

As this month’s free MOJO CD compilation suggests, The Ramones’ influences were more commercial than they were avant-garde or revolutionary. The disc includes sublime hits by Bobby Freeman, The Shangri-Las, T. Rex and The Trashmen, and omits even more popular acts which the band frequently cited as inspirations, such as Slade, Alice Cooper and 1910 Fruitgum Company.

The Ramones of course were not fated to be a chart-topping band. They became what Artaud was to theater or Nathanael West to 20^th century literature—artists who perhaps came off as more confrontational than intended, showing audiences a future they realized they should be bracing themselves for. In any case, despite concerted efforts from producers, managers, promoters and audiences, the leap to mainstream consciousness (for better or worse) eluded the Ramones.

I saw the Boston premiere of Rock & Roll High School, which The Ramones were there to introduce, had seen them play a couple of times before that, and went on to see them perform several dozen more times. I may have been the first on my suburban Massachusetts block to know who they were, but I knew I was an embarrassingly late-comer to the party even then.

What I would have given to be Tom Hearn. A ‘70s suburbanite like me, albeit in Connecticut and a couple years older, Tom happened to go to high school with the guys who later founded Punk Magazine, and had pretty prescient musical tastes himself. Revered as the leader of the rascally roots-rock Big Fat Combo, Tom Hearn is also a fine photographer who, especially in the late ‘70s, often found himself in the right place at the right time to shoot iconic photos of some punk and new wave legends back when they were just bands standing on street corners outside small clubs. The Ramones loom large in Tom’s photographic portfolio.

An exhibit of headbanging Hearn images, The Flowering of Punk Rock, will be held April 14 through May 27 at Fairfield University’s Thomas Walsh Art Gallery. There’s an opening reception Saturday the 16^th from 6:30-7:30 p.m. with Tom’s old school chum Legs McNeil reading from his oral history of the punk movement Please Kill Me, plus music from Billy Hough.